


Axes & Acorns

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Domestic Fluff, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Happy Ending, M/M, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Edward retires from the Navy for a simpler life, but things are far from simple when he meets an odd man in the woods.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34
Collections: The Joplittle Fall Fic Exchange 2020





	Axes & Acorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vegetas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/gifts).



> _He knelt, he wept, he prayed,_ _  
> By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light  
>  And the cup and the cut bread in the dancing shade,  
>  In the muffled house, in the quick of night,  
>  At the point of love, forsaken and afraid._
> 
> _—_ Dylan Thomas, ‘A Winter’s Tale’

**I.**

Sweat trickles down Edward’s forehead, stinging his eyes, and he tastes salt mixed with dirt and bramble as he wipes his palm across his face. Even in the shade of a great oak tree, the heat is enormous. He considers stripping down to his breeches, much like he did as a young midshipman on the hottest and stillest days at sea, but for now, he fans himself with his hat. Setting aside his axe, he squints at the pasture beyond the trees where tall grass sways with the barest of a breeze much like the swell of waves.

Even with his feet firmly on land, the illusion tricks him, and in a blink, the clouds in the sky became grape-shredded sails and the colorless pasture the silvery sheen of a midday sea.

Edward squeezes his eyes shut, turning his back to the pasture. He gropes for the handle of his axe, the wood slotting into his blistered hand with growing familiarity. He has to open his eyes to swing, but as he deepens the notch in the side of the slender elm tree he’s downing, each thud against the wood muffles his thoughts. He shoves any memories of sea to a faraway corner of pasture where no path goes and where he doesn’t walk.

There are many occupations he could have considered when he returned home. His family was bemused, to put it most gently, with Edward’s decision to go west and live in a reclusive cottage several miles from an equally reclusive village near the Welsh border.

 _To cut trees?_ His brother James had asked, his mouth hanging open.

Edward’s face had colored, and to mask his embarrassment, he downed the remainder of his brandy in one gulp. _It’s more than that, but yes._

James shook his head. _It’s just bizarre, Ed. Good-looking and capable fellow such as yourself? You could be throwing away a captaincy._

 _A potential captaincy,_ Edward reminded him, bravely glancing up before the pity on his brother’s face became too much to bear. _The Navy is full of lieutenants on half-pay. Where would I get such a ship, Jim?_

James sputtered, waving his hand broadly, the inner workings of the Admiralty as foreign to him as his investment firm was unfathomable to Edward.

 _I don’t know. Certainly, there must be_ something _that the Navy needs to patrol…_

 _The war is over_ , Edward stared at droplets of brandy clinging to the lip of his glass. _We can’t very well wish for another French invasion._

With a strained chuckle, James agreed, _Right you are, Ed. Right you are._

The conversation was months ago, and Edward tries to forget it as he ties kindling into bundles and sets them by the logs in his cart. Next goes his axe and knapsack before he grabs the handles of the cart and starts to pull it toward his new home.

Beside him, the creek running through the heart of the woodland trickles softly. It widens into a river that feeds the heart of this country, and he tries to stay close to it every time he ventures into the wood. As he walks, bumbling along rocks and roots in the path, he hears a rustle behind him. It is loud enough that he pauses and lowers his cart to the ground to look around. The woods are a dusky orange tint as the sun sets, but he sees neither fox nor deer skulking about the trees.

He figures the noise was his imagination only, and he hoists the cart back onto its wheels. He longs for the day when he can afford to keep a horse instead of hauling himself, but for today, he walks, his soft whistle joining the birds’.

🍃 🍃 🍃

It is a simple life but one that Edward has come to cherish. He lives alone in the stone cottage, his nearest neighbor a couple miles away, but he maintains a strict schedule. He rises early, stokes the fire, and eats a simple but hearty breakfast. By the time the sun fully crests the hills and floods the valley with its light, Edward is on the path heading into the wood, his cart creaking behind him.

His supply of chopped wood is growing. He keeps it stored in the shed beside barrels of potatoes and an old horse hoe, with just enough room left for the cart. There is no need to work dreadfully hard today, and with a glance toward a patch of sky between the trees, Edward thinks that he might give himself a few days of leisure after today.

He does not stray far into the woodland, and as always, he keeps close to the creek. Along his usual path, he comes across the massive oak tree. The creek bumps into its roots only to veer around it; the muddy bank a mixture of rock and silt and spidery tree roots. Edward sets his cart at the base of the tree, thinking to himself how ancient it must be that even a creek would divert its direction out of respect.

He leaves his cart by the tree, as safe a place as any, and looks about for smaller trees to fell. In the end, he collects more branches for kindling rather than logs, but he is satisfied with the work.

He leaves the sticks in a pile on the bank as he removes his shoes and stockings to wade in the creek. The water is a touch too cold, so he walks through the shallows for a short while before stepping onto a sunlit stone. He crouches by the stream, dangling his fingers at the water’s surface when he hears the whine and thud of his cart moving behind him.

He stands quickly, his foot slipping on the mossy rock, and he falls on his rump hard enough to bruise, the bottom of his breeches soaking up the chilly water.

Laughter as light as the rustle of leaves meets Edward’s ear. He staggers to his feet, wiping his hands down the front of his jacket, but he nearly falls back into the creek when he sees a boy perched on one of the branches suspended over the water.

The boy — no, a man, it would seem, with skin as smooth and clear as a youth’s — tilts his head at him.

“You’re a clumsy one, aren’t you?” He laughs again, swinging his bare feet beneath him, his toes cutting into the water.

Edward’s face burns, and he ignores him as he clambers up the bank. He picks up his axe and shoes, stomping toward the cart. His knapsack lies open, its contents spilled onto the ground. He sighs, gathering the remains of his lunch from the dead leaves on the ground.

The man peers around the edge of the cart, and Edward is about to tell him off when the man curls his fingers curl between the spokes of the wheel and asks, “What are you doing in my forest, anyway?”

Edward’s mouth goes dry.

“Your forest?” His mind races, trying to remember the name of the lord whose property extended through the width of the woodland, whether he had any sons who enjoyed playing vagrant and would accost poor tradesmen such as himself. His mind draws a blank, so he grunts, fastening his knapsack shut. “I’m just a woodcutter.”

All trace of humor leaves the man’s face as he yanks his hand from the cart as though burned.

“You will _not_ cut wood here!”

Edward stalls, the man’s vehemence catching him off guard.

“Beg pardon?” he asks in a tiny voice as he frowns at the ground. “I only cut what I need. And I have permission from—”

The man scoffs, his pale eyes blazing. “You most certainly do not have my permission, nor was it ever granted.”

Before Edward can respond, he darts toward the oak tree, and Edward watches as the man nimbly leaps onto the large roots. Edward realizes how poorly dressed he is. His clothes are threadbare and worn. He wears neither jacket nor stockings. He has no shoes, but his bare feet carry him from root to root with the grace of an urchin who has clearly made his life among the trees. This is certainly no son of aristocracy.

Feeling quite annoyed now, Edward huffs and hops from one foot to the other as he pulls his shoes on. He nearly trips over his abandoned axe in his haste to follow the man. He lodges the axe into the base of the tree before scrambling around the massive trunk with much less grace than the man.

A high-pitched yelp wraps around the tree. Edward swears—and later, he will wonder if his mind was playing tricks on him—that the tree quivers beneath him. He loses his balance, and his foot slides between the roots and bends at a sharp angle. He cries out, crumpling to his knees and scraping his shin. With his ankle throbbing, he grabs a root ahead of him and pulls. His skin chafes on the rough bark, but he is able to remove himself from the tangle of roots to the other side of the tree in time to find the man sitting on the ground, holding his leg.

“Wait,” Edward gasps. “Wait.”

The man frowns at him, his expression verging on a sulk.

Edward tries to put weight on both his feet, but he immediately lifts his right foot to the ball when pain shoots up his calf. The man sniffs.

“Serves you right,” he says, “for cutting my tree.”

“Your tree, your forest,” Edward mutters. The pain in his ankle is sharp enough that he also sits, several paces from the man. “I’ve just as much right to be here as you.”

The man regards him with a cool stare. The same hot embarrassment that filled Edward when the man laughed at him comes rushing back. The man’s scrutiny makes him feel strangely small, and were it not for the twinge in his ankle, he would stand and leave straight away.

“I can fix that for you,” the man says, shifting until he sits cross-legged before Edward.

“Fix what?”

“Your leg. What else?” He stands with feline grace, pursing his lips when Edward shies from him. “If I wished you harm, I would have done so already.”

His ankle is beginning to swell, and Edward tenses, expecting pain as the man wraps his hands around the joint. His touch is gentle, however, and light enough that it tickles. With a wheeze, Edward tries to jerk his foot away. The man raises both his brows at Edward, his blank expression twisting toward something devious as his eyes gleam, a sharp indent dimpling in one of his cheeks as he poorly suppresses a smile.

“I would rather you not,” Edward weakly protests.

“What? Tickle you? Or hurt you?”

Edward lapses into silence. Sitting this close to him, Edward is struck by the man’s beauty. The curve of his jaw, the straight jut of his nose, the delicate line of his lips, pale eyes like glass, all centered in a face clean of any blemishes, lines, or spots. Perhaps he is not a vagabond, either. The man’s lips curve the longer he stares, and Edward averts his gaze, clearing his throat and shifting. He tries to pull his leg away again, and the man shocks him by pulling his foot fully into his lap. He slides his thumbs along the ankle with more firmness now; not hard enough to hurt, but also not light enough to make his skin twitch.

“I can take care of this now,” he says. “On one simple condition: you don’t cut my trees.”

Indignation swells inside Edward.

“That’s ridiculous! I have a right to my livelihood…”

“I only require,” the man interrupts, “that you leave _my_ trees be.”

Edward gapes. “How on earth could I determine such a thing?”

With a hum, the man shrugs. “You will have to learn.”

A sensation like stepping into snow grips Edward by the foot until the strange tingling travels from his toes to his knees. He gasps, jerking his foot away by instinct. The man lets him go. Edward stumbles, hesitant to put weight on his foot, but when he does, there is no pain, no twinges. He stares open-mouthed at the man where he still sits on the ground.

“Thank you,” Edward manages after floundering; “How might I repay you?”

The man smirks, fully this time. He stands and brushes his hands down the front of his breeches.

“Don’t hurt my trees,” he says, “that’s how.”

With that, he turns and begins walking along the edge of the creek, heading north. Edward starts, holding a hand out as though he means to stop him.

“Wait, please.” The man turns, eyebrows high on his forehead, and Edward continues haltingly, “May I at least have your name?”

The man stares with that expressionless face for several seconds before a soft smile appears there.

“Only if I may have yours.”

“Edward,” he answers, perhaps too quickly. He has half a mind to include his rank, though he immediately dismisses the idea as silly. “Edward Little.”

“Edward Little,” the man repeats, his eyes careening toward the sky. “Edward.”

He keeps walking and promptly disappears behind a thicket. Edward rushes after him.

“Wait, you haven’t told me yours…”

He turns around the bend, but the man is gone. Edward stares up the creek and around the trees, but he sees no sign of the man, no disturbance in the undergrowth. The sun beats down on his head, and the wind rustles the tree branches. There is no man here but himself.

Feeling confused, and perhaps a touch dejected, Edward returns to his cart. He finds his axe repelled from the tree. It lies on its side in the dirt. He gathers his abandoned stockings and the sticks he left by the creek, and with one final glance toward the oak tree, he heads home.

**II.**

Edward is dreadfully alone, living in his cottage under the bough of an apple tree and surrounded by dense woodland and distant neighbors.

He has always suffered from an acute loneliness. He thinks of his childhood home, bursting at the seams with piles of rowdy children; both the bane and the joy of his mother, and a constant headache for the maids. Edward remembers resenting it: the lack of privacy, the secondhand clothing, the constant nagging from sisters, the bullying from brothers.

He joined the Navy as a boy, hoping the open sea would provide him with some of the freedoms his home lacked. Such hopes were quickly dashed by a tyrannical captain and peevish officers. Edward continued a cramped and dull life, and he discovered that loneliness turned bitter when surrounded by nothing but strangers and a great expanse of steel-blue ocean.

He nearly gave up the endeavor, but loath as he was to go home, Edward joined a second voyage, one that was vastly kinder to this serious and quiet boy. The mates were like brothers to him, and in this forgiving environment, he excelled at his duties, climbing through the ranks with speed.

But with war ended, the Navy became bloated, and Edward himself washed onto shore and back into the bustle of his family. He thought the cottage would be a pleasant and familiar change of pace, but he finds himself entrenched again in that seemingly inescapable loneliness.

He dreams of the man in the wood, though it is a fortnight before he can recall finer details: anything beyond raven-black hair, pale eyes, and a mischievous smile. He wonders where the man lives. He saw no hovel, no shack, no lean-to. He didn’t wear shoes, a detail that strikes Edward as particularly odd, given the fast approaching autumn and winter. But despite his ragged clothes, the man was the epitome of health.

The dreams take a turn one night, and Edward wakes with a shameful buzz of pleasure about his head and in his loins, a ghostly kiss lingering on his lips.

“None of that,” he groans, voice muffled by his hands as he drags them down his face.

After he has stoked the fire, he heats porridge for his breakfast. While it cooks, he stares out the window at the hazy sky and shivers when a crack in the window frame lets in a sliver of cold air.

Deep in thought, he frowns at his breakfast before he makes up his mind. He goes to the chest by his bed, digs out an older jacket, folds it, and stuffs it into his knapsack. He takes no tools with him, and for the first time in several days, he hikes into the wood along the creek.

The day grows increasingly cloudy and windy, and he can smell the sweet decay of browning leaves and fallen logs as he walks. When he reaches the oak, the man is nowhere in sight, but a sense of awe fills Edward as he approaches the tree.

He had not appreciated the enormity of the tree before. From its jungle of roots to its towering branches, the tree is a giant and a regal presence in the wood as it watches over the young saplings and the winding creek like a hundreds-year-old sentry. Edward places his palm against the trunk, where some lichen peels off the bark. Far from a superstitious man, Edward is nonetheless flooded with a wave of sentiment. Perhaps the tree recognizes that he is there, and that he truly does not mean it or the forest any harm.

Edward wanders around the base, scanning the area for that telltale head of black hair. He spooks a rabbit from where she had been nibbling the underbelly of a bush, but still, nothing more human than himself is there.

With a sigh, he takes the jacket from his bag. He finds a dip in the roots that form a natural canopy and leaves the jacket there. He wonders if he should leave a note as well. He then wonders if the man could even read such a note.

He shakes his head and leaves it be, turning to walk back home.

“You left something.”

Edward whirls about. The man is standing by the tree. Dressed as shabbily as before, he holds Edward’s jacket at chest level, the seam of the shoulders pinched between forefinger and thumb.

He raises his eyebrows at Edward.

Oh, if only the ground would open up and swallow him whole, that would be more painless than trying to dredge up an answer for the man.

Edward swallows. “I did not know if you were in need of one. A jacket, that is. I know that it’s been quite cool as of late…”

He stops before he begins rambling. The man lifts the jacket higher as though inspecting it. He then lowers it, his eyes shining over the top of the collar. Edward feels his face flush, knowing that the man is laughing at him.

The man runs one of the woolen sleeves through his hand. He _is_ smiling, but it is not with the mockery that Edward feared. The man deftly folds the jacket into a square and brings it to Edward.

“That is kind of you,” he says, his eyes crinkling as the smile deepens. “But I don’t need it.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

The man laughs silently, his shoulders rolling with it. He hands the jacket to Edward, the smile slowly disappearing as he searches his face.

“Why should it matter?” he asks, his tone suddenly serious; “Don’t come back here.”

The words are such a shock that Edward is silent as the man turns on his heel and marches back to the tree. The jacket in his arms becomes heavy as iron. He should listen and return home before the storm brewing above his head begins to spit out ice-cold rain.

“I haven’t cut more trees,” Edward calls after that man.

The man pauses at the base of the oak, his head tilting. He doesn’t turn around, and in the span of a few seconds, he scales over the large roots and disappears around the trunk.

Water drops onto Edward’s forehead. It is the only warning he gets before the heavens open, and rain begins to pour.

He runs back to the cottage with the jacket held over his head, but he is still soaked to the bone by the time he rushes into his tiny kitchen and starts a fire in the stove. He strips himself naked and drapes his wet clothes over the stove while his teeth chatter and his hands shake. He finds a blanket to wrap himself in, and he huddles by the fire. He watches steam float off the drying clothes, and as rain begins to beat harder on his roof, he glumly wonders if the man will be all right.

🍃 🍃 🍃

When Edward next visits the village, his cart is piled high with kindling and logs. With the chilly autumn evenings and winter nipping at autumn’s heels, people want their fires larger and hotter with enough fuel to make them last. They gladly accept the extra wood that Edward provides them, and he sells all but a single bundle of kindling.

With the extra coin his purse, he buys some groceries, stopping at the butcher for fresh chicken and a farmer’s stall for onions and carrots. Once he has the food safely stashed in his bags, he picks up the handles of his cart and starts his walk home.

At the edge of the village, a peddler has set up shop, and the peddler loudly greets him, inviting him to come see his many trinkets. Edward nearly ignores him, but something about the selection of mismatched accoutrements catches his fancy. To the peddler’s great delight, he stops and picks out a pale green ribbon that shines like sea glass in the meager sunlight.

The old man gives him a gummy grin and elbows his side.

“Something pretty for the missus, eh?”

Edward dumbly nods as he digs out the coins for the ribbon. He sees no reason to correct the peddler. The man has a perpetual and rather dazed look of contentment on his face. He likely would not have understood Edward’s answer anyway.

He keeps the ribbon in his pocket where it will be safer than in his knapsack. There it stays once he returns home and checks on the stew that he left simmering. Once he stokes the coals under the pot, he draws the ribbon from his pocket.

It is a foolish and juvenile notion, he tells himself, that he bought the ribbon because it reminded him of the man’s eyes. Perhaps the man will enjoy something fanciful like ribbon far more than an ugly, old jacket. Or perhaps he’ll throw the ribbon into the creek without so much as a second glance at Edward. Such worries are a constant refrain drumming inside Edward’s head as he makes the walk to the oak tree.

Its leaves have changed colors with the season. With the sunlight filtering through the branches, the very air glows with the brilliant medley of gold and cinnamon, and beneath this shade of burning autumn, Edward is surprised to find the man fast asleep among the roots.

His clothing is different. The pieces are still simple, but gone is the ragged shirt and torn trousers, replaced with cream-colored breeches, a blue waistcoat buttoned to a white collar, and all completed with a gray jacket. Still no shoes or stockings, but the man looks more like a proper gentleman now.

A sudden shyness overcomes Edward, and he inches forward, careful to not break any twigs underfoot.

He glances about for a good place to leave the ribbon where the man will see it when he wakes, when a sleep-addled voice interrupts his search.

“You have an uncanny knack for not following directions, Edward Little.”

Edward flinches. He nearly drops the ribbon. The man is still lying on the root, his head cushioned on his arms. Only one eye has opened and is watching him. Edward hides the ribbon behind his back as he steps away.

The man sits up with a stretch, his nose crinkling as he yawns. Edward realizes that despite the heavier clothing, the man looks frightfully pale and thinner than he had a few weeks past.

““I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The man’s laugh is like the tinkling of bells. “Never you mind. I often sleep this time of year.”

“Are you unwell?”

The question gives the man pause.

At Edward’s earnest stare, he finally shakes his head, picking at the buttons on his jacket. “No, I am quite fine. Thank you.”

“Good,” Edward hastily says. A sly smile grows on the man’s face, and Edward barrels over his nerves by adding, “I have something for you.”

The man perks. “Do you? May I see?” He stands and sidles to Edward, trying to peer over his shoulder. “It’s not another jacket, is it?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

The man plucks the ribbon from his hand before he can stash it in his pocket. Edward watches as he runs the ribbon through his hands, the sunlight glinting off the silvery threads woven in the velveteen. When the man holds it up, Edward can see how perfectly it matches his eyes. He also notices dark shadows bruising the delicate skin beneath those pretty eyes, and how his cheeks — once full and rosy — have acquired an ashen tint and stretch over his cheekbones.

“It’s beautiful,” the man says, flashing a brilliant smile at Edward. “Where did you find it?”

“I bought it in the village.”

“You bought it?”

The surprise in the man’s tone makes Edward shift on his feet. “Well. Yes.”

A strange sorrow crosses the man’s face before he turns away, looking over the trees and leaf-laden paths.

“You shouldn’t have,” he whispers.

Edward starts. “I’m sorry…”

“No. Don’t.” The man turns back to him, another smile on his face. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t apologize, please.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you—”

“I know!” The man quickly interjects, the smile growing a fraction wider before he repeats, softer, “I know that now. You are an odd one, Edward Little.”

The statement hangs in the air. Edward doesn’t know what to say, and to keep himself from fidgeting, he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He rocks on his heels, starting to turn.

“I suppose I should head back now. It’s late.”

“It is.”

Edward wets his lips. “I’ll come back another time?”

The last syllable lilts upward, Edward staring hard at the man’s feet rather than his face.

“Yes, I would like to see you again.”

Hope surges through Edward. “I still don’t even know your name.”

The man shakes his head, the smile lessening again. “It is not something I give freely.”

Something like dejection must flash across Edward’s face because the man goes to him and presses a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Perhaps someday, Edward.”

That promise fills Edward with such warmth that he Edward returns home with a spring in his step and no care for the chilly wind as it whistles through the trees.

He wakes the next morning to find a neat pile of logs by his front door.

🍃 🍃 🍃

The gifts become routine and Edward’s visits more frequent. The man in the woods accepts each of them with alarming grace and, at times, childish eagerness. Through trial and error, Edward learns the things he enjoys most: costume jewelry, ribbons, slices of apple.

One visit in particular fills Edward with such intense affection for this odd man that he worries he is becoming too attached, that his attentions are imprudent; but he cannot stop the constant smile on his face as the man breaks pieces off the gingerbread Edward bought in the village. With pleasured moans verging on obscene, he speaks with a mouth full of a crumbs, his hand held before his mouth to maintain some level of propriety. He is less enthused about the pair of shoes Edward brought him. He gives them a light kick before standing.

“I’ve told you time and again, Edward,” he teases, bending over to snatch another piece gingerbread; “I don’t need them.”

He climbs the tree roots with such care and effort that Edward continue to worry that he is hiding an illness. His heel slips, and Edward starts to stand, one hand held up. The man notices and shakes his head. He holds the gingerbread between his teeth and balances himself with both hands on the trunk as he scampers around the massive tree.

Several quiet seconds pass before the man appears on the other side. He sits on the root closest to the trunk and purposely crosses his ankles, showing off stockings that disappear into a pair of expertly crafted shoes. Edward notices, with an errant beat of his heart, that the shoes’ buckles are decorated with the pale green ribbon.

The man nibbles on the gingerbread as he kicks a leg up and inspects the shoe.

“They do look nice,” he says through a mouthful, hand delicately poised before his face. He swallows before continuing, “But I’ve never been fond of shoes. I find them uncomfortable.”

He finishes his gingerbread and brushes the crumbs off his breeches before he starts to climb down the roots. The shoes have no traction, and he slips. Edward was already on his feet, and he rushes forward, catching the man. He wraps his arm around his waist, holding him steady as he helps him to the ground, and he keeps the arm wrapped tight as they walk back to the blanket he’s laid over the leaves and grass.

The man sighs, laying his head on Edward’s shoulder. Edward inhales a couple of short bursts of air, his eyes focused hard on the blanket.

“You are much too kind to me, Edward,” the man whispers. He turns more into Edward, pressing his lips against his shoulder through his jacket. “Do you have a sweetheart in your life? I would hate to be stealing your attention from her.”

Edward shakes his head. Though his heart thuds rapidly in his chest and his throat is as dry as a desert, he is buoyed by the man moving closer. He encases the man’s waist with both arms.

“I don’t have one,” he says, wetting his lips when the man raises his pale gaze. “I never wanted one, really. I came here after the war to be alone.”

The man’s eyes gleam, their corners creasing when his close-lipped smile grows wide.

“Yet you’re here.”

Edward returns the smile. “I am.”

The man steps a fraction closer, tucking his arms against Edward’s chest and resting his head on his shoulder again. Edward feels his warm breath on his neck, making him chuckle somewhat from the sensation. The man nuzzles the skin above his collar and the edge of his whiskers, and Edward tightens his embrace, almost frightened to let go.

🍃 🍃 🍃

“Where do you live?” Edward asks, hoping he is not overstepping.

The man stirs from where he lies cradled on Edward’s chest. The pair of them lie on the blanket under the bright, sunlit leaves. Edward watches one as red as wine drift from a branch before landing somewhere on his waistcoat.

The man plucks it from his chest, twirling the stem between his fingers.

“I live here,” he says. “In the forest. I thought you understood that.”

“But do you have shelter? The nights are getting colder.”

“It is the same every year,” the man replies with a sigh, dropping the leaf onto the blanket. “It’s hardly a surprise.”

Edward frowns, working over in his mind how he might invite the man to stay with him, at least where he might be warm and dry. He still longs to know the man’s name so that he might have something to whisper to himself as he falls asleep alone in his bed. The idea makes his heart race, and he closes his eyes.

The man shifts above him, lifting his weight off Edward’s chest. Edward feels a finger rub the crease between his brows, and his eyes flutter open to see the man leaning over him, a fond smile on his face.

“You worry too much, Edward,” he says. His hand strays from Edward’s brow to his cheek, his thumb rubbing the skin in soothing circles. “I’ll be fine.”

All thoughts of winter flee from Edward’s mind, focused as he now is at the gentle touch on his cheek and the clear color of the man’s eyes; how easy it would be for Edward to lean up and kiss him on his beautiful lips.

Something shifts in the man’s face. His lips part, and his eyes droop. His thumb travels from cheek to chin before tracing the shape of Edward’s bottom lip. When Edward’s breath quickens, the man smiles.

“You’re so different, Edward,” he says, his thumb staying at the corner of his mouth. “Why is that? Why did you have to come here and change everything I thought I knew?”

Edward summons enough bravery to hold the man’s hand. He closes his eyes and turns his head, kissing first the pad of his thumb and then his palm.

“I’m sorry if I have offended you somehow,” Edward whispers into the man’s wrist, ignoring the man’s huff. “I came to this forest to be alone, but you were here. I didn’t mind that you were. I’ve found I can no longer think about anything or anyone else.”

There is a long silence that stretches after his confession; long enough that Edward feels as though metal bands are sliding around his heart and locking shut. With a shaky breath, he opens his eyes. The man has sat back and is staring at him. His eyes shine, the tears obvious in them. He searches Edward’s face before withdrawing his hand. That gesture alone is nearly enough to squeeze the last bit of life out of Edward’s chest, but the man only moves his hands to Edward’s waist, pressing gently against his sides.

“Were you any other sort,” the man says, his voice thick, “I would think you want something. Some sort of boon you’ve decided I can give.”

Edward frowns, more distressed by the man’s tears than his words.

“I don’t know how you mean, but I would never take advantage of you.”

The man laughs, the sound wavering between watery and delighted, and with a wide smile, he says, “I know!” And again, softer, “I know.”

He leans over Edward, kissing him briefly. The iron falls away from Edward’s heart, and he catches the man’s lips in a second kiss before he pulls too far away. The man yelps in surprise, grinning as he sits up and Edward follows. They become as giddy and playful as boys. Edward gently wrestles the man to the blanket only for the man to slide out from beneath him, crawling back on top of Edward with ease. He cups the back of Edward’s neck, kissing him again. This time, he doesn’t pull away. He settles his weight on Edward, and their legs tangle together. With the sun on their backs and the gurgle of the creek nearby, Edward loses count of how many kisses they share; the world narrowed to no more than them, lying together on the blanket beside the great oak.

🍃 🍃 🍃

A week passes where Edward is unable to go to the oak tree. From the cottage windows, he watches the trees lose their summer coats, carpeting the ground in myriad shades of brown. He regrets being unable to visit the man, but he has had to make numerous trips to the village, hauling wood to sell. By the time he returns home, the sun has set, and he is too tired or wary to wander into the wood.

One such evening, he has returned just as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, and while the sky is rapidly darkening, there is enough light for him to see that his shed door hangs ajar.

His thoughts race to the morning, whether or not he had properly latched the door, and he leaves the cart by the cottage door before hurrying to the shed. Trepidation twists inside him as he as comes closer, and he nudges the door with the toe of his boot, slowly pulling it open.

When he comes face to face with a large black horse, he jumps back with a cry of surprise. The horse watches him with an unimpressed stare before lowering its head and biting hay off one of the bales Edward had stored there not three days prior.

“Where did you come from?” he says as he edges his way into the shed. He tries to give the horse plenty of room, but it pays him no mind. It only flicks its tail as Edward moves past him.

Behind the horse, the man from the woods has found a corner to sleep, cushioned only by hay and covered by a dusty tarpaulin that he must have retrieved from somewhere inside the shed. Despite how filthy the tarp is, he has it drawn to his cheek, his fingers clutching the edge. Only his forehead and the dark spill of his hair are visible.

Edward worries that he’ll startle him, but as he sits beside him on the hay, one touch to his shoulder is all that rouses him. The tarp slides down as he sits up, and he stretches, covering a wide yawn with his hand. He rubs at his eyes like a child, and Edward glances away to hide his smile.

“Is the horse yours?”

“No,” the man answers, his voice drawn out by another yawn. “I brought him here for you.”

Edward starts, turning back to the man. “For me? Why would you do that?”

“You could use one,” the man says matter-of-factly. “Your trips to the village will be faster now.”

Guilt travels through Edward at the thought that he has been neglecting him, but the man gives Edward a fond smile. It’s framed by his tired face. Even his normally bright eyes and glossy hair look dull. Edward tucks a strand behind the man’s ear, a gesture he has seen the man do many times. The man grows still, his eyes distant.

“Are you well?” Edward asks.

“Might I stay with you awhile?” he asks, rather than answer Edward’s question.

“Of course.”

With a sigh, the man slots himself against Edward. He can smell the hay in his hair and the leaves on his clothes. Despite this, his clothes remain without a trace of dirt or tears.

“Does the horse have a name?” he asks.

The man shakes his head against his chest. “You may call him whatever you like.” He yawns again. “He has not had a human master in many years. You’ll have to be patient with him.”

“Well, if he is anything like you, I’ll have him worn down in no time at all,” Edward jokes.

The man pulls away from Edward with a strange look. Edward’s face erupts in a blush, and he is about to apologize when the man snorts and begins to laugh. It dissolves quickly into a throaty cackle. The sound is absolutely ridiculous; but loud and jovial enough that Edward cannot help but laugh with him. He laughs until his sides hurt and until his cheeks ache from grinning. Their foreheads bump together until the laughter fades into the occasional giggle. The childish laughter clings to them as Edward takes the man’s hand, leading him out of the barn and into the cottage where they escape the chilly night.

**III.**

The piles of wood continue to appear at his doorstep every morning. Edward finally asks the man about them.

“Of course they’re from me,” he answers from where he sits on the bed, a cup of tea held in his hands. “Was it not obvious?”

“Are you well enough to keep doing it?”

The man waves a hand, hiding his smile behind the cup. “Please. I’m capable of that and much more.”

Edward carries the logs to the hearth. He tosses one onto the fire where the flames begin devouring it immediately with a soft crackle and a pleasant aroma. He joins the man on the bed, gently knocking their knees together.

“You only seem,” he pauses, hesitating on the word, “weaker than when I first met you.”

“It’s always this way in winter. Don’t worry. I’m perfectly well.”

When Edward won’t stop frowning, the man sets aside the tea. He crawls into Edward’s lap and kisses him.

“Share some of that worry, Edward. It shouldn’t be your burden alone.”

He continues to kiss Edward and tug playfully at his whiskers until he earns a laugh from him. His face lights up under the sickly pallor his skin has recently adopted. He kisses Edward a little longer and harder, the deliberate roll of his hips sending waves of pleasure through Edward.

At some point, the tea cup is knocked over, spilling tea on the rug and floor, but neither of them notices as they shed their clothing and slip under the quilt; laughter interspersed through their kisses and moans. They spend the rest of the morning in bed, and Edward cannot imagine being anywhere else.

As the fire crackles nearby, the man presses his lips to Edward’s ear and whispers a name.

“I’ve been called many things through the years,” he says with a wry smile, his dark hair fanning around his face onto the pillow. “But I’m most fond of that one.”

Edward dips his head into the hollow of his neck, kissing and lapping at the salty sweat clinging at the skin.

“Thomas,” he says, testing how the name sounds, how it feels, how it perfectly suits the man before him. “I like it.”

Thomas hums. “I’m glad you approve.”

“I don’t mean like that. I mean it suits you.”

Edward is pleased to see the beginning of a blush across Thomas’s cheeks, and when he props himself on an elbow, Thomas looks up at him fondly, dragging his fingers through the thicket of hair on Edward’s chest.

Edward’s breath stutters, from how incredibly full his heart feels.

Thomas pulls him down for another kiss. “Shall we see to breakfast now?”

🍃 🍃 🍃

It becomes a ritual for the mornings: Thomas lounging in bed, Edward bringing him cups of tea accompanied with buttered toast sprinkled with spices and sugar. Other days, the tray is laden with warm milk and whatever sweetmeat Edward was able to procure in the village; candied fruits, toffees, and other such delicacies that he is unable to make himself.

More than once, however, Thomas has expressed how much he prefers the simpler fare that Edward makes, such as the hearty and aromatic breads. Edward always flushes and dips his chin, insisting that Thomas would vastly prefer his sister's baking.

"Did she teach you?” Thomas asks one morning, around a mouthful of toast. "How to make such delectable treats?"

Edward shakes his head, fixing his own plate and joining Thomas. Today, they have migrated from bed to sofa which suits Edward just as well. They are nearer to the fire, and it is easier to wipe crumbs off the furniture than to shake out the bedding.

"No, my sister Jane and I learned from the cook. We spent a lot of time in the kitchen when we were young, especially during winter." He laughs, his eyes growing distant as he stares at the fire. "She had extraordinary patience, Mrs Dowd. She never scolded us for our constant chatter and messes. She put us to work eventually, seeing how we refused to give her a moment's peace."

He stops himself and takes a sip of his tea.

"But, really, it's not that interesting, I’m sorry."

"I’d like to hear more."

Edward turns to see Thomas staring earnestly. His arms are folded over his knees, and he has set aside his tea and bread, all attention on Edward.

"It's not much of a story," he insists, but bolstered by Thomas's curiosity, he continues, "After a few weeks of this, my parents either blissfully unaware or uncaring that Janie and I spent more time learning our way around a kitchen than completing our lessons — our governess was also a woman of enormous patience — Janie acquired a knack for broths and roasts, and I took a special interest in bread. Mrs Dowd used to tell me that I had good hands for it. I thought she was teasing me at the time since Janie learned the same recipes in half the time it took me, but looking back, I believe she meant it.”

Edward pauses, reaching once more for his cup.

This is the most he has talked about himself in weeks, if not ever. Content to listen and observe, he has always allowed his siblings to fill the air. Even at sea, he took a backstep to his more lively crewmates. Now he feels strangely untethered, like one of their boats cut from the ship and left floating on the open ocean without so much as a sail or paddle to guide it.

When he glances at Thomas, he is shocked to see him perfectly attentive. Perhaps he senses some of Edward’s anxiety because he smiles and reaches forward, placing his hand on his arm.

"She sounds like a lovely woman," he says, and Edward believes him.

🍃 🍃 🍃

To his own surprise, Edward becomes quite the storyteller. Thomas sits rapt while he recounts his time in the Navy, the harrowing and exhilarating battles, how the crack of a cannon was enough to make one’s ears ring for hours afterward.

Per Thomas's insistence, he does not spare the details. He recounts with a trembling voice how he lost good friends to infected wounds or to illness, how he would find himself alone in his cabin with nothing more than his thoughts to keep him company, and how the whole battle would flow through his mind like a coarse, rocky sand; he incapable of stopping the thoughts, unable to dull the pain, the second-guessing.

"But it wasn't all bad," he tells Thomas. "My favorite time were watches on a clear night. The ocean is pitch black, and the moon reflects off the surface as bright as though it were a porcelain plate floating there. It was so calm that for a time I could forget the future, forget the battles. The sea provided me with purpose. I've always felt like I'm missing a limb on land, but..."

When Edward hesitates, Thomas edges closer, laying his head on Edward's shoulder in wordless comfort. He slides his hand under the hem of Edward’s waistcoat, holding him close.

"I've missed the calm most of all,” Edward says. “That strange calm that both preceded and followed battle. It's like nowhere else. It's numbing, and one of the few times I'm able to forget myself."

The silence that follows his confession is heavy. He cannot bring himself to look at Thomas. He untangles himself and stands, fetching the teapot andfilling both their cups. Thomas gives him enough space that they don’t touch when he sits back down. He accepts the fresh tea with a nod, and after staring at the cup in his hands, he sets it aside, taking a deep breath and fixing the strand of hair where it falls across his face.

"And even here? Does that calm elude you?"

Edward sighs, regretting that he said anything. His hands shake as he tries to bring the cup to his lips. Thomas takes it from him before he spills tea all over himself. He clutches Edward's hands until he finally looks at him.

"The calm, yes,” Edward says, and when Thomas nods—his sweet, gentle Tom—he leans closer to him until their foreheads touch. "But I have found purpose again."

🍃 🍃 🍃

Edward watches Thomas kneel by the window over the bed and wipe a circle in the frost with the cuff of his sleeve. He scoots behind him and peers out the window with him.

There is not much they can see from the window on even the clearest of days, but this cold morning, the sun is sleeping behind a thick shroud. Snow tumbles steadily, coating the ground until nothing but the stone barrier surrounding the cottage is visible. The trees and pasture grow bulky and soft under the silent storm, and it is hypnotizing to watch the familiar landscape become changed.

Edward embraces Thomas from behind and rests his chin on Thomas's shoulder.

"I don't usually watch the snow," Thomas says.

"What do you normally do in winter?"

Thomas shrugs. "Sleep."

The snow shows no sign of letting up anytime soon, and neither of them are eager to leave their bed. Thomas hums as Edward begins to pepper light kisses up the side of his neck. Edward glances up and sees a ghost of a smile on his face as he closes his eyes and leans his head back.

Edward pulls him from the window so they can burrow under the covers. He sits back against the headboard, the old wood creaking under his weight, and Thomas straddles his lap, kissing and nibbling his lips with a coy laziness. He breaks a kiss to glance at the hearth. With hardly more than a bend of his wrist, sparks burst under the grate, and the coals grumble as the fire grows large and bright.

But there is also no lack of warmth in their cocoon on the bed. Droplets of sweat gather on Edward’s temples and down his chest while Thomas kisses his neck. He dips his head to mouth a wet trail on Edward’s breastbone, and his hands slide down his sides lightly enough that Edward twitches and gasps.

Thomas sits back, a devilish smirk on his face. He does the same motion again, making Edward squirm and let out an involuntary laugh.

"Thomas," Edward pleads, still laughing as Thomas pecks a kiss on his nose.

"Fine." He continues a line of kisses down Edward’s belly, his voice muffled under the thick blankets. "Though I enjoy hearing you laugh."

Edward does laugh a few more times, mixed with moans, as Thomas kisses along the sensitive skin of his thighs. He reaches under the blanket to slide his fingers through Thomas’s hair, and he feels Thomas lean into it before he pulls away and kisses the tip of Edward's cock, sliding it fully into his mouth.

Gasps and cries fill the room as Edward closes his eyes, his head falling back against the headboard. Silence was his habit in previous encounters, but never before has he had the opportunity to live with a lover nor has he ever had a lover so insistent on teasing such noises from him. In their short time together, Thomas has discovered countless avenues to bring Edward to completion—and most exciting is the clear enjoyment Thomas receives from making Edward crumple beneath him.

Thomas’s expert attention brings Edward terribly close to the edge, and as much as Edward would enjoy finishing like this, Thomas must have other ideas in mind. He pulls off, giving Edward's thigh an apologetic kiss before emerging from beneath the blankets.

His eyes are heavy-lidded and blown, acquiring a deep shade that Edward has only seen in the privacy of the cottage, in the shadowy nest of the bed with nothing but firelight to illuminate them.

He drags his tongue across Edward’s bottom lip before slipping it into his mouth, and the faint taste of himself is enough to make Edward’s mind go fuzzy, the pleasure so intense that his limbs go cold and ripple with gooseflesh. Thomas chuckles, his hands coming to the nape of Edward's neck and gently pulling him back.

"I want you inside me," he whispers against his lips.

Nodding, Edward kisses him hard. He digs his hands into the muscle of Thomas's lower back, and as Thomas reaches past him to the bedside table where he keeps an amber bottle of oil for this very purpose, the quilt slides off his shoulders and pools around his hips on the bed.

With the bottle clutched safely in his hand, Thomas centers himself on Edward's lap, and they share several long kisses, searching and tasting each other with a patience both the season and their isolated home provide.

Edward flips them, and Thomas sinks into the pillows with a sigh. He hands the bottle to Edward, and when he unscrews it, its leathery scent curls around his nostrils; always a pungent, musky surprise. They have shared many days and nights in this bed, or on the sofa by the fire when they were too impatient to cross the short distance to the bed, and the familiar scent of the oil makes Edward’s breath quicken. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, and Thomas deliberately brushes against it with his thigh as Edward coats two of his fingers in oil.

With a groan, Edward presses his nose against Thomas's hairline. He grinds into the friction from Thomas's leg, unable to stop himself.

"Careful," he warns, "or I'll finish right now."

Thomas turns and kisses his cheek. "No, you won't. You've more willpower than that, love."

He is right, but Edward still nips his ear in irritation. Thomas arches into the bite with a laugh, but he removes his leg, spreading his thighs to better accommodate Edward.

For all his warnings of spilling too soon, he is patient here. He listens to each sound Thomas makes, how his hands twist in the linens, how his heel digs into his back; all until Edward decides that he is pliant and ready.

Sinking into Thomas is always a shock, but Edward keeps his eyes focused on Thomas, how his mouth falls open and eyes flutter shut until he is completely seated inside him.

He brushes a couple sweaty strands from Thomas's forehead.

"Do you need a moment?" he asks.

Thomas shakes his head, grabbing his whiskers to pull him into a kiss.

"Fuck me, Edward Little," he commands. “Hard.”

And obedient to a fault, Edward listens.

🍃 🍃 🍃

Edward knows not of the hour, only that the sun is still hidden behind clouds, and snow continues to fall.

"It will be hard enough to walk to the barn, never mind the village," he complains as wipes condensation from the window.

Thomas tugs him from the window, throwing the quilt over their shoulders.

"You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?"

"No," Edward says after a moment, "but it still seems rather ridiculous to spend the entire day in bed."

"I firmly disagree."

Thomas rubs his cheek Edward's chest until he finally relents and wraps his arms around his shoulders. The fire continues to cheerfully burn with preternatural brightness in the grate, and other than distant pangs of hunger, there is nothing calling Edward from the comfort of the blankets and pillows and Thomas's solid weight in his arms.

"I had forgotten how nice this is," Thomas says, his fingers tracing lines up and down Edward's bicep.

"How nice what is?"

"Being held." Thomas stills his hand and burrows against Edward's neck with a sigh. "It has been a while."

The thorns in his chest are sudden, and Edward shifts uncomfortably as he forces his question past a lump in his throat.

"Have you had many lovers then? Before?"

Thomas cranes his neck to look at him.

"A few," he says, his wide eyes narrowing into a shrewd look, a slight smile on his face, "Oh, surely you are not jealous, Edward?"

His face burns, and he looks away toward the dim square of light at the window. Thomas props himself on Edward's chest. He runs his thumb along the line of Edward's whiskers, smoothing an eyebrow, and flattening several flyaway strands in his hair.

"You don't need to be," he says. "They were all a long time ago."

"What changed?" Edward asks, sensing the somberness in Thomas's face and voice.

"People change. The land change. Villages come and go." Thomas shrugs and buries his face in the crook of Edward's arm. "I don't find people as accepting anymore."

"Well, I like being around you," Edward says, "and I'm glad you're here."

Thomas is quiet, and Edward's heart starts to beat faster, so much so that he nearly misses Thomas's soft, "I am, too."

🍃 🍃 🍃

Thomas spends the winter looking pale and fragile. Edward does not voice his worries, but he cannot help but wonder if some of Thomas's tricks do not tire him; how he always keeps the fire going and how the piles of wood still appear on his doorstep, how their tea and sugar never run out, and their bread never goes stale.

In place of the trinkets and the sweets as Edward's trips to the village have trickled to none during the winter, Thomas accepts his affection. He clings to Edward in the mornings while they wake, and he wraps himself in Edward's arms when they fall asleep. He rarely moves from bed to sofa. Even that short distance seems to fatigue him.

One terrible morning, the dull sound of rain a distinct change from the silent footfalls of snow, Edward wakes to find himself alone. The hearth is cold and dark. He rushes through the cottage in a panic until he finds Thomas outside. He is dressed much like the first time Edward saw him, in nothing more than a thin shirt and breeches. His clothing is drenched, clinging to his pale skin, but Thomas takes no notice.

He is staring down the road where the forest grows thick and dense even at the tail-end of winter. There is the distant shriek of an owl in the wood. He cocks his head as though listening, but he otherwise does not move, not even when Edward calls his name.

"Thomas, please." Edward reaches him, cupping his elbow and guiding him back into the cottage. Thomas lets him. "You'll catch cold doing that."

Thomas's face is distant, but he doesn't breathe a word of complaint as Edward undresses him, fitting him into dry clothes and toweling the rain from his hair.

"I have to go away for a while," he finally says as the two of them sit close to the fire.

Edward swallows, poking at the damp wood as it sputters and steams in the weak fire. The whole cottage feels damp, and despite the weeks of cold winter, it is only now that Edward feels a searing ache in his hands and in his knees.

"Will you be back?" he asks, facing the fire.

"The season is ending," Thomas says, delicately avoiding Edward's question. "I have matters that I must attend to."

“Must you leave?” The miserable words drip from Edward like sludge, and he rolls the poker in his hands endlessly, staring at the fire until his eyes hurt.

“Yes. For a while at least.”

Edward nods, dipping his head forward. The winter had felt impossibly long at the beginning of December, and now it felt dreadfully short.

“Might I—” He hesitates, wetting his lips. “Might I have something to remember you by, at least?”

Thomas snorts, a bit of life returning to his cheeks. He nudges Edward’s calf with his foot.

“I seem to recall that it is _you_ who brings _me_ gifts.” He goes to Edward, removing the poker from his hands and lifting his chin. “Oh, darling, I have little to give.”

“I don’t require much.”

Thomas laughs, a watery sound, and he sits in Edward’s lap, his fingers carding through his whiskers.

“And what of me, Edward Little? What will I have of you?”

“I would give you everything. My life, my heart.” He frowns. “I don’t have much either.”

Thomas presses their foreheads together before giving him a long kiss.

“Your heart is enough,” he says, pressing his palm flat on Edward’s chest. “Your heart is true.”

Making love that night has an air of finality. Edward wants to sear into his memory the sensation of Thomas’s hands in his hair and on his back, the subtle strength in his thighs against his waist, the taste of his mouth, and the sweet sighs against his ear. He wants to press the memory like a flower in the pages of an old book where it might blot the words of a much-loved poem with the ink of its petals, and its scent would mark the pages forever, never to be forgotten even as the flower itself wilts.

Thomas does not tease Edward when he hides his wet face against his neck. He hums a wordless song in Edward’s ear and strokes his hair.

"When will I see you again?" Edward asks, his voice terribly small and tremulous.

Thomas does not answer, but he pauses petting Edward’s hair. He kisses his temple then tilts his chin to kiss his cheeks, his nose, and finally his mouth. When he presses their foreheads together, Edward closes his eyes. His breathing is still haggard, but he feels Thomas brush his tears away, kissing the skin where it is wet and bruised.

Edward must fall asleep at some point, but he does not remember when. He does not dream, and he wakes to the same dreary weather they had yesterday. He expects Thomas to be gone already, but Thomas sits at the edge of the bed, waiting for him.

He is dressed already and has made a satchel, containing the ribbons and glass beads and pretty things that Edward has given him. He patiently waits as Edward dresses himself, and he lets Edward follow him to the door. In a fit of begrudging sentimentality, he even accepts Edward's offer of a great coat for the rain and slips on a pair of Edward’s boots. 

The rain is hardly more than a drizzle, but it leaves the morning desolate and gray. The pair of them stand by the door and watch the sluggish rain. It is strange, how Edward feels; both heavy and hollowed-out. As much as he wants to plead with Thomas to stay, he knows that nothing he says will convince him, and that helplessness is nearly enough to make him ill.

Thomas takes his hand. He kisses his knuckles first before setting an acorn in the center of his palm. Edward frowns, misunderstanding the gesture.

“What is this?” he asks.“Plant this in a place of importance. Where you will care for it and cherish it. Beside—” He finally smiles, and it lessens some of the pain around Edward’s heart. “—you’ve been saying all winter how much you want a vegetable garden. Plant this near that.”

He gives Edward another kiss, and as the rain lets up, the sun peeking from a small window in the clouds, he walks down the short path from the cottage to the road. Edward watches him go, the acorn heavy in his hand.

**IV.**

The trees are beginning to bud again. Blossoms spring to life on the otherwise gnarled apple tree hanging over the cottage. Grass and flowers poke through the melting snow, and soon there is no ice left, the morning frost replaced by the shimmering incandescence of dew clinging to the bushes and leaves.

Edward plants the acorn in the corner of his small, fenced-in property. He watches it every day, unsure what he expects, but no sapling appears as he churns the ground for his garden and as he lets the horse graze in the yard.

Logs no longer appear on his doorstep, but the supply Thomas provided him during winter is enough for him to get by for a while. He resumes his walks into the forest, bundling kindling and making notches in the larger trees he plans to fell—forever mindful of the trees near the creek and the great oak. He keeps his promise, and no longer cuts any trees toward the west, in the corner of woods that Thomas holds dear.

Edward frequently makes a pilgrimage to the oak tree, and like a pilgrim, he leaves a variety of offerings each time. He leaves poppets, beads, flowers, and paper-wrapped sweets. Sometimes, he waits by the creek, listening to the trickle of water and the symphony of birds. The oak tree itself sprouts new life from its branches. Squirrels scramble along the branches, as much at home as Thomas.

The man Edward wants never makes an appearance, and it is always with a heavy heart and slow feet that he ambles back to his cottage. Though the days are warmer now, Edward discovers a new chill attaching itself to the corners of his home, and he fears that it is a frosty loneliness that will not thaw.

🍃 🍃 🍃

A letter from Edward’s sister Margaret arrives. In fact, it arrived some time ago and has since been acquiring a layer of dust on a shelf in the village’s shop. The man running the till nearly forgets to give it to Edward when he comes in to buy seeds, and the pair of them talk more of Edward’s work in the woods or at his faraway cottage. The man speaks of war starting again with the French, with a detached curiosity as though he were describing to Edward what he ate for breakfast that morning.

The topic makes Edward’s blood run cold, and he excuses himself with a _thank you_ and is nearly out the door when the shopkeeper suddenly remembers the letter.

“Oh! Mr Little, wait a moment,” he says, stepping on a stool to reach the caddy full of yellowing papers. “Here you are. You’re a hard one to find.”

As the man chortles to himself, Edward accepts the letter with a stiff smile. He turns the envelope over in his hand and recognizes his sister’s handwriting immediately. With a nod to shopkeeper, he hurries to his horse, stashing the seeds in the saddlebags. He breaks the seal on the envelope and pulls the top of the letter out. It is dated from early December, and he reads far enough to see his sister asking after his health and his new home.

He sighs, putting the letter into his pocket as he mounts the horse and urges it down the road toward home.

The horse never needs direction. The horse hardly seems to pay Edward any mind at all, truth be told. It is a leisurely ride back to the cottage, the sun bright in the sky, the air warm and pleasant. The horse pauses frequently to nibble at the grass growing by the roadside, pulling its head back with vigor every time it finds a tough clump.

Edward retrieves the letter and starts reading again.

He sees the missed invitation she extended to him for Christmas, and in his shame, he almost shoves the letter back into his pocket. He sighs and forces himself to read further.

_Charles and I would gladly house you any time of year, but the sea is exceptionally beautiful in winter, if a bit chilly. I don’t mean to presume, but I wondered if you missed the seaside at all, Eddy? I never set foot on as many ships as you, but I know I would miss the sound of the waves were Charles and I ever to leave. Archie and Frankie would love to see you as well. You wouldn’t recognize them for how much they’ve sprung up like beanstalks since you last saw them. Janie will be staying with us in May, if you would rather postpone a visit. You are welcome any time, Eddy. Please write me soon! I long to hear more of your simple and rugged life in the country. Your ever devoted sister, Margaret_

There is a hastily added postscript where she mentions that James has also been asking after him, but in her words, _he is just as capable as writing as I am, and I told him as such. Still, be a dear and send a note his way._

He sighs as he finishes the letter. If he closes his eyes, he can hear Margaret’s voice clear as day in his head, her tone wavering between sisterly affection and motherly exasperation; something she had mastered at a young age.

When he reaches his cottage, he lets the horse roam the yard as he skims over the letter again. He should write her back straightaway, he thinks with some guilt, and with his eyes on the letter in his hand, he does not see the triangular stack of logs in front of his door until his toe painfully collides with it. He trips, catching himself on the doorjamb, a curse tumbling from his lips. The stack collapses, and the logs roll into the door with a thud.

His heart catches from a sudden surge of hope, and in his hurry to leap over the pile and into the cottage, he drops his sister’s letter.

He doesn’t find Thomas inside, so he rushes out to the yard, nearly tripping on the logs again. The horse lifts its head, chewing grass and watching as he runs around the cottage. He rounds the corner, stumbling over his feet, but there is Thomas, kneeling by the freshly churned kitchen garden and sifting the dirt through one of his hands.

Color has returned to his full cheeks, and his eyes gleam as bright as the sky when he lifts his head and sees Edward. He stands, brushing his hand on the thigh of his breeches, and when Edward throws his arms around him, he grunts from the impact, his smile growing wide. Edward is somewhat embarrassed with himself, and he hides his face against Thomas’s hair. Thomas will have none of it as he finds Edward’s chin and meets him with a sweet kiss.

Buoyed, Edward crushes him in an even tighter embrace, lifting Thomas off the ground. Thomas lets out a delighted laugh, and Edward clumsily spins them until they tumble to the ground. Edward pays the dirt no mind, heedless of any messes and stains, and with nothing but sky above them and cool earth beneath them, Edward turns onto his side, facing Thomas. He brushes the hair from Thomas’s face, trying to memorize the features he has sorely missed. In a surprising bout of his own shyness, Thomas closes his eyes and nudges Edward’s palm open so that he may nuzzle and kiss each finger. Affection floods Edward, and he pulls Thomas forward for another kiss, and Thomas follows, clambering on top of him.

They kiss for what feels like hours, and surely, Edward would have spent the rest of the day lying in the dirt with Thomas in sweet, companionable silence, making love to nothing but sunshine and the spring breeze, but Thomas eventually pulls away. He nuzzles his nose at the hinge of Edward's jaw, and his hand sneaks up the hem of Edward’s shirt so he may splay his fingers wide on the bare skin of Edward's belly.

"I have missed you.”

"So have I."

Thomas's eyes crinkle. "My sweet Edward. I wish I never had to leave."

The confession leaves a worrying sensation in the back of Edward’s mind, and his fears bubble inside him until they spill over.

“You’re not leaving again, are you?” he asks.

Thomas does not laugh at him, but there is a mischievous sparkle in his eye and a roguish slant to his mouth.

“Do you want to be rid of me so quickly, dear?”

“No!” Edward cries. “I’m glad you’re returned. I just worry for how long.”

Thomas kisses the wrinkle between his eyebrows. He sits up, tugging Edward to follow him.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

He leads Edward to the patch of ground where he planted the acorn. The sapling breaking the ground is tiny, but it is already sprouting glossy leaves that glow almost yellow where the sun hits them. Thomas beams with the pride of a parent as he overlooks the sapling, and Edward knows that the sapling must be special, that it will grow with strength and speed, so long as he keeps his promise to watch over it.

He slips his arm around Thomas’s waist, and Thomas returns the half-embrace, laying his head on Edward’s shoulder.

“I have places I must go,” he says. “Other trees and forests that need me. But know this, Edward, my heart: you shall always have me. And I will always return.”

Edward swallows, blinking back the tears stinging his eyes. “When?”

“When the trees begin their winter rest.”

“But spring has only just begun.”

Thomas kisses him again. “Spring and summer are busy seasons, for you and I both. It will be over before you know it.” He separates himself from Edward and crouches by the sapling, gently running his fingers along the length of the slender trunk and branches. “Care for this as though it were me. And I swear it, Edward, I will be back.”

🍃 🍃 🍃

“Do you have that all right, Uncle Eddy?”

Edward shoots a dubious stare to Archie as he hands his trunk to the cab driver. As the driver fastens the trunk in place, Edward pats Archie on the shoulder.

“I’m not that old, son,” he says, waving away any apologies scurrying through Archie’s mind as rapidly as the flush blossoming on his cheeks. “I’ll be all right. Go help your Uncle Jim with the rifles.” He glances at the darkening sky. “If you’ll be shooting at all, today. Go on.”

With the grace of a gangly and unaffected youth, Archie nods several times before stumbling over his feet as he walks away. “Yes, right. Good seeing you, Uncle!”

He nearly runs into his mother at the door, but she steps around him with hardly more than a scolding.

“Are you so eager to leave that I can’t wish my own brother goodbye?”

Never one to contest anything his older sister had to say, Edward lets her pull him into a tight hug.

“The boys will miss you for Christmas.”

“They always do,” Edward says, though he softens it with, “And I am sorry for it.”

“I worry about you, Eddy. That cottage of yours must be ghastly in the winter. Do you have a housekeeper at least?”

Edward detaches himself, giving his sister what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“I get by just fine. I like the quiet.” He kisses her on the cheek before climbing into the cab. He used to ride the horse to his sister’s, but his knees and his hips can no longer tolerate such a journey. “I’ll visit again, say in April. How about that?”

She clasps her hands before herself, giving him a fond if wry smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He salutes her with his hat, closing the cab door behind him before he settles on the thin cushions of the seat. He hears the cry of the driver and the crack of his whip, and soon they are off, trundling down the road. Edward watches out the window as the dark clouds grow furious and black, and soon the patter of rain drums on the hood of the cab. The rain mixed with the thud of horse hooves and the squeak of the carriage’s wheels soon lulls him to sleep.

He wakes off and on through the journey, watching as the rainy landscape becomes more densely wooded until he begins to see familiar landmarks, and some of the tension finally leaves his shoulders.

The rain lessens to a drizzle by the time he sees the corner of his cottage with the great oak tree looming behind the thatched roof. The sun is rapidly setting as the cab pulls up beside the cottage’s gate, and as Edward exits the carriage, he sees the lantern lit by the door. The windows are all shut though light peeks from the gaps in the curtains, and he cannot help the foolish grin on his face as he hurriedly gathers his things.

Edward thanks the driver, tipping him generously. He doesn’t wait for the man’s response as he takes his trunk and hurries up the path to the door, awkwardly shouldering it open.

A crackling fire and the savory scent of cooking fat greets him. He carries his trunk inside, kicking the door shut with his foot. He leaves the trunk in the parlor and follows his nose to the kitchen where Thomas has made himself at home, cooking thick slabs of bacon in the skillet with a kettle whistling nearby. His back is turned to Edward, humming as he cuts slices off a brown loaf of bread.

Edward pauses in the doorway, watching Thomas work. Even after years, Thomas’s presence in his home never ceases to fill Edward with a contentment bordering on grief, for how rare and precious he is, for how much Edward wishes he might wake to Thomas’s face every morning.

Thomas turns to the kettle, his eyes landing on Edward. A wide smile fills his face, without a shred of surprise, and Edward goes to him, burying his nose into his hair as he embraces him.

“Welcome home,” Thomas says with a happy sigh.

“Is it that time of year already?” Edward asks him, kissing the side of his head.

Thomas turns and kisses him properly on the lips before nuzzling his nose. He takes special care to run his fingers along the patches of silver growing thicker with every year at Edward’s temples and in his whiskers.

“I decided to come early this year,” he says. “I missed my Edward.”

They spend the remainder of the evening in companionable silence by the hearth. The aches in Edward’s bones fade as he puffs on his pipe and Thomas idly strokes his hand as he sips his tea.

Outside, the clouds break enough for the moon to light up the oak tree where it casts it shadow over the cottage’s roof. Smoke from the chimney drifts through the branches before rising to the dark sky. A sigh travels through the oak, a subtle inhale and exhale, and the leaves flutter as though moved by an unseen breeze.

**Author's Note:**

> vegetas requested lonely woodcutter Edward and ethereal fae Jopson which I couldn't resist.
> 
> set vaguely during the Napoleonic Wars, but that detail is very blink-and-you'll-miss it. me? writing back-to-back historical au's with supernatural elements? it's more likely than you think!


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